


They press our teardrops into diamonds

by magpie_03



Series: Down the mountain range of my left-side brain [5]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Caring Josh Dun, Chronic Illness, Disability, Epilepsy, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-20 11:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13716801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_03/pseuds/magpie_03
Summary: Outside, the world unfolds under a vast blue winter sky. In the hospital, time folds onto itself.





	They press our teardrops into diamonds

**Author's Note:**

> A new update. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading my stories so far. It means the world to me knowing that there are some people out there who read and like the things I'm writing! 
> 
> Trigger warning for self-harm.
> 
> SUDEP: Sudden Unexpected Death in Epilepsy Patients.

A regular neuro appointment. Tyler's body is swallowed hole by an automatic door, his cheeks still red from the harsh February wind. Outside, the world unfolds under a vast blue winter sky. In the hospital, time folds onto itself. Dissected into appointments and slots and scans and tests, weeks shrink into days, days into minutes, until it all boils down to that one appointment you've been waiting for for 3 whole months.

Thursday, 9.30 AM. Tyler Joseph, epilepsy clinic.

A body of time made to fit on a post it note. You can hold it in your hand. You can crumble and toss it. You can set it ablaze and watch it burn.

Hospital time isn't something that you experience actively. It's something that's done to you, to your body. Sitting on benches or lying in a bed -- you remain in the passive. There's nothing left to do except to count the remaining minutes of the day and to hold them against your mind until you can see your breath right in front of you. Until time condensates and freezes into a memory. 

Tyler stumbles forward.

The only thing that vaguely acknowledged the outside world is the decoration on the neurology ward. Tinsel. Tyler was pretty sure he's seen the same thing last year, too, in November. And quite possibly even last summer. Christmas decoration all year long. In other places you'd be declared crazy but over here it's considered "good cheer."  

Other than that the same green lino, the same walls, eggshell-white. Sometimes Tyler wondered if they painted each ward a different color and who on earth decided that vomit colors would be a great idea for the general neurology ward where the epilepsy clinic was located. On floor -1 (hospital jargon for: welcome to the basement).

He drops his rucksack and takes a seat. He's gotten better, he thinks. Not really the epilepsy part or the seizures ("you can't have everything in life," as his mother liked to remind him) but his endless fear, which was dimmed down so he could walk, breathe. He still felt anxious whenever he set foot into the clinic -- hell, he felt anxious right now -- but his medicated mind was so slow, he simply ran out of the energy it took to process the fear. It was all muted, static. It was still there, deep inside him. And the next second it wasn't. He felt both hypervigilant and drugged up. Not a tired epilepsy soldier. More like a Keppra zombie.

Waiting for his appointment at the epilepsy clinic still felt like waiting at a public bus stop. No privacy for you when you've got a sick brain. Also no chairs either, just metal seats that are screwed into the wall. And even with real, decent chairs there still would be no privacy, not when you're parked between an old man in a wheelchair (obviously a patient, judging by his bathrobe and the glum look on his face) and a younger woman (obviously a patient, judging by the parents that had come with her). He's seen them a couple of times, the parents. They weren't like the other parents that came down here. They weren't the nervous kind or the pacing kind. They also weren't the kind with a screaming kid, the kind that obviously belonged to a different ward but didn't see the sign that said "NEUROPEDIATRICS THIS WAY." And thank God they weren't the complaining kind. They always said hello and nodded politely at his broken body, that empty vessel. Shaking hands and heavy head. Droopy eyelids, slurred speech. Tyler could tell they were used to being stared at, too.

Today they brought their daughter along. For an EEG and bloodwork. There was no privacy after all and after an hour of waiting he genereally knew who the other patients were. He knew what they were here for, what tests needed to get done. It was all supposed to be handled in a separate room, the nurse's station, a room with glass walls, locked from the outside. A red line on the floor even told you where to wait in order to give the other patients _discretion_. There wasn't much _discretion_ , however. The nurses simply ran from one room to the next and shouted the orders to drown out the crying and screaming from the adjacent Neuropediatrics ward, the endless moaning from the complainers, and the other patients who made smalltalk.

A sick brain, on display. Always.

The woman didn't seem to mind. She always wore clothes that were colorful, funky. Colors that stood out, but in a good way. They made him think of sunshine on his skin, all warm and golden. He didn't know her name and he didn't dare to ask. She wasn't really talking but it was clear that she was communicating with her parents. Flapping her hands, turning her head this way or that. Laughing to herself. When Tyler smiled at her her mother caught his eye and smiled back.

It felt like forever ago when he fought with his mom in the ER.

He didn't know if she chose her clothes or they did. Or was it someone else? Tyler stares at his jeans. They were the same old jeans he wore yesterday and last week and last month. Black. Nondescript. Wearing the same set of clothes everyday gave him more than protection. It was a promise. He could be anyone. He could live anyone's life. Be someone. Or no one. With black, it was hard to tell. He remained anoymous, until ---

"TYLER JOSEPH"

He became someone. The EEG nurse loves to holler names and he's next in line. He waves goodbye to the woman and passes through another set of automatic doors.

"Hi Tyler. Good to see you!"

He tries to zone out but can't. The EEG nurse didn't just love to holler names -- she also loved to talk as she glued the electrodes to his scalp. So by the time she's done and the electrodes are in place he knows all about that vacation she took with her boyfriend, the places they'v seen, the food she's eaten. He stares at a wall. There wasn't even a window in the room.

"Okay, Tyler, I need you to lie very still."

_What do you think I'm doing here, stepdancing or what_

"Open your eyes please."

_Yup hello vomit-colored wall_

"And close them."

_Goodbye..._

"Okay, now I need to you to breathe deeply. In and out."

_Not this again, hyperventilation doesn't work on my brain_

"Can you try a little more?"

_Ughhh  
_

"Please keep your eyes closed. Don't move them."

_Yeah well I'm kinda busy here_

"Shoot, I lost contact ..."

She presses the electrode to his right temple.

_This isn't going very well is it_

"Okay, you can breathe normally again."

"One more minute..."

_I'm counting..._

"All done!"

He rubs the glue out of his hair with a bunch of paper towels. The fluorescent light takes all the color out of his complexion. He looks like a ghost. He looks like a nobody.

Bloodtests next. Another room, windowless, even smaller than the EEG room. The nurse here is a welcome change: she doesn't even look him in the face.

"Which arm? Left or right?"

"Left."

He slowly rolls up the sleeve of his hoodie. The nurse looks and says nothing. Silence. That bit of dignity.

Back to the seat. He's the only patient remaining.

"Tyler Joseph?"

He jumps a little. This isn't a voice he knows. Where was his regular neurologist? Obviously not here. A tall woman is standing in front of him, big glasses, white coat, disheveled hair. She looks like a mad scientist fresh out of the lab. The neurologist he's supposed to meet today. Tyler curses silently. He hasn't seen this woman before, which meant she didn't know anything about him other than his file, which lists him as a lost cause. Refractory epilepsy, difficult-to-treat seizures. Tyler has seen enough doctors to know what the term meant. He's seen enough shoulders that were shrugged. Pens that were thrown down. Word that stuck in his brain, like

_Why did we stop Lamotrigine, it's the best drug that's out there_

_Don't you want to try again, we could put you back on the drug and see if anything im--_

_You really don't?_

_Was it that bad? Did you get the rash?_

_No? But?_

_Ok, alright, well then_

_We could try this medication instead, it's still first-choice but you need to know it clears through the liver and we're going to have to watch out for that  
_

_Well I don't like this EEG scan at all, have you had you MRI yet_

_Let's wait for the results  
_

_I think you're a candidate for a video EEG_

_I think we need to get a second opinion_

_Or a third_

_I really think you should do a video EEG_

_What? You did one already? Where are the results?_

_I can understand that you're impatient_

_You're here for the long haul, Tyler_

She directs him to her office - a small hospital room, bland and anonymous like all the other rooms he's been in. Tyler sits down. A plastic chair, this time. He can still hear the nurses on the floor walking by. Squeaky shoes, hushed voices. His file is right in front of her.

"So, Tyler. How are you feeling?"

Another white sheet. The page long stopped to be promising. The doctor pulls out a pen out of her breast pocket and clicks twice. _I'm waiting._ The click says. _I have exactly 2 minutes planned for this appointment and you better not waste my time._

He hides his hands inside his hoodie.

"Okay, I guess."

_Liar_

She glances at him briefly before going back to the stack of papers in front of her. He can't tell if she's trying to be attentive or if he just happens to be the fifth patient in a row.

"How is it going with the Levetiracetam?"

He couldn't afford to lie, not this time.

"Not very well..."

_That's an understatement_

"What happened? Your bloodtest came back normal and the EEG is quite okay too."

_But I'm not fine, too bad_

"I keep having seizures, the simple partials..."

"How frequent?"

Can he afford to tell the truth then? He doesn't want her to give up on him, not yet.

"Errr.. one every 4 weeks."

_Liar_

"It used to be 4 to 6 weeks but they're getting closer..."

_Oh you bet_

"I'm also getting the auras more often, at least one or two every week. And it feels like, I feel like..." He trails off.

"What does it feel like?"

_I'm pissing the bed during the seizures, how do you think I'm feeling_

"It starts with a feeling in my stomach, a rising feeling, like in nightmares.. and..  uh.. and it keeps getting worse, it started with this feeling in my stomach but now I get a falling sensation, too, like I'm standing and suddenly it feels like my body is falling but it isn't..."

"And the seizures?"

"The same. I keep seeing colors, flashes of light, it's pretty intense..."

Tyler presses his fingernails into his palm to keep the emotion out of his voice. He was so sick of this. Why didn't she read the file? It's always difficult to squeeze three months into a two minute appointment and even more so when you don't have good news to bear. He felt ashamed for disappointing his doctors, for not getting better. No -- for getting better, then getting sicker, then getting better, then getting sicker again.

He wanted to tell her how the Keppra practically deleted sleep from his brain. How he lay awake, night after night, fear and terror pumping through his vines. He wanted to tell her how he started to bite his hands just to keep quiet, not to wake up Josh who was snoring softly next to him. How Josh awoke anyway and took his hands. How he kissed his knuckles, one by one.

He wanted to tell her how the words _it's going to be okay_ can take a whole different meaning in a dark room, in a misfiring brain.

Words are different here. In the hospital, they become bare and ugly, like a tree that's losing all its leaves during the winter. The only difference: leaves grow back. Even when you torch them. Especially when you torch them.

The neurologist clicks her pen. 3 minutes.

"Well I can see here that you've had epilepsy for quite some time now, Tyler. You need to know that in patients with refractory epilepsy chances that we will find a medication that will help you are very low after 2-3 trials. And your EEG looks okay and you haven't had a grand mal seizure in a few months, right? So I suggest you stay on Levetiracetam for the time being. We'll increase the dosage and see how you respond. Sometimes we need to go to the maximum with a specific drug to get the desired therapeutic effect."

_A desired therapeutic effect_

Should he tell her how he had googled “Keppra rage” and seen the ugliest things. And that didn't even come close how the drug made him feel. How alienated, isolated, and scared.

Should he tell her about the noise that came out of Josh's throat when he found Tyler on the bathroom that night. When he bled all over the floor.

Should he tell her about the email his mom forwarded him, the one with the article about SUDEP. “I think you should read this.” He knew he belonged to the risk group. Young. Male. Frequent change in medication. Grand mal seizures. Seizures during sleep. Refractory epilepsy. Poor compliance.

Should he tell her how he screamed and pleaded in his mind. _But I'm taking the pills, I'm taking them. I am compliant. I am._

How his body response was always the same: it shook and growled.

Tyler hides his face in his hands.

The doctor exhales loudly and types something into her computer. He isn't sure what it meant. _Patient is being uncooperative_ or _when is lunch_ or _fuck this I want to go home_.

4 minutes

"Tyler. Let's give this drug a try. It's a great drug. I think you will benefit from this."

He could tell she was lying. She was running out of time and wanted him out of the office.

He shrugs his shoulders.

"Alright. Any other symptoms I need to know about?"

Tyler nods. He can feel the heat in his face.

"I...well...I ..."

"Yes?" She's looking at her watch now. 5 minutes.

"I, uh... well... I've got a problem with ...incontinence."

_Why does the stupid word have so many syllables_

"Oh but that's not a problem..."

Well it's oviously not a problem for _you_

"There are great incontinence pads for beds out there. It's really not an issue."

He wonders if she said these things to every patient and if she really expected them to nod along. _Oh, it's totally not an issue. You're going to lose the life you had before you became epileptic. And we don't know if your epilepsy will respond to medication or not. It might. It might not. You may also fall into the category of patients whose epilepsy is refractory. Sounds shitty and feels shitty, too. You might also get seizures in public. I wouldn't recommend. And don't get me started on medications and side effects. But fear not: there are great incontinence pads out there!_

"Here are your prescriptions. I'll see you in three months!"

The hospital doors spit him back out. He waited 2 hours for a 5 minute appointment. Outside, the world kept turning. There is still a vast sky. Bright, blinding. Same pressure building behind his chest. Tears spring into his eyes.

_Too tired too scared too tired too scared_

Someone comes up from behind and pulls him into a bear hug. Someone with hair that felt like sunshine on his skin. Someone who whispers _stay alive_ into his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by a song by Watsky, "Tears to Diamonds."
> 
> Also, Keppra and Levetiracetam are the same thing. Keppra is the brand name for the drug. I'm too lazy to type out the long name ..


End file.
